


Just Deserts

by truc



Series: It's 100% Bruce's fault, I swear! [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood- All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Jason Todd, Alpha Ra's al Ghul, Alpha Talia al Ghul, Bruce Wayne unhinged, Canon Rape, Clocks, Consensual Sex, Desert, Desertion, Imprisonment, League of Assassins - Freeform, M/M, Non Consensual Biting, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Omega Bruce Wayne, Paranoia, Talia and Ra's are psychopaths and rapists here, Training, Trauma, canon non-consent drug use, time-travelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:22:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28536585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truc/pseuds/truc
Summary: Having delivered and received many punches in his life (and afterlife), Jason Todd was an expert on the matter. More than that, he had accumulated, over the years, fond admiration for a well-delivered punch.Velocity, strength, technique, artistic expression; they were all relevant factors on which one could assess a punch.And, really, in the split moment before getting hit, Jason respected every aspect of the passion-powered-high-velocity-League-of-Assassin-mastery punch.Then, he blacked out, stray reflections lingering on the stunning punch, definitively one of his top-five picks.Well, that was life.Sometimes, one would get lost in a chilly desert by a time-travelling motherfucker of a grandfather clock just to be punched the daylight out by one's former mentor/former guardian/former enemy/reluctant ally/former one-night-stand.Continuity to Merry-Go-Round.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne/Ra's Al Ghul (heavily implied), Bruce Wayne/Talia al Ghul
Series: It's 100% Bruce's fault, I swear! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084232
Comments: 70
Kudos: 90





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I'll add the necessary warnings for each chapter.

Deserts _sucked_. Sand deserts doubly so.

Most people thought the blazing sun's glare was the worst part of it. Well, as bad as it were, Jason hated the nights worse.

Even his leather jacket wasn't enough to block out the chilling whirlwind of sand slipping onto his skin. He'll wear his thickest pair of gloves, wear his helmet and keep active to keep the numbness at bay.

The night sky, a black nothingness filled with an absurd looking round thing and spots of stardust, felt like the antithesis of Gotham's entirely black sky, mostly blocked by buildings upon buildings of concrete and whatever else. At least, even in the middle of the city, anyone could live with the illusion of community, whereas, here, no such mirage could exist.

Why was he here and, where was this? Fuck if he knew!

 _Fuck_ life and its 'beautiful' mysteries! Those things were why people got away with domestic violence or murder in the first place.

Mysteries could shove the grandfather clock up their _asses_. Under his mask, he smiled at the thought of feeding a woodstove with splintered parts of it. If the clock hadn't disappeared as soon as it dropped him on top of a dune in the _fucking_ middle of nowhere, that's what Jason would have done.

He walked some more, shivering as he started to lose his sensations in his fingers and toes. It wasn't even the icy cold of winter snow. At least then, he would have understood his growing frustration.

" _Fuck_ you."

As much as he hated desert nights, he wasn't looking forward to finding out how little water he had brought with him on his impromptu trip in the past.

Was he in the past again? Or the future? Or another timeline?

Based on his past interactions with Gotham, he might still be in his world, catapulted in another time. Or the fucking clock might be playing mind games with him. Or he might have died again and gone to hell. Been there, done that.

He rather hoped that this time, if he was dead, he had died in Gotham. From the beginning, Jason was convinced he would die in one of Gotham's back alleys before his majority, with no one to cry over his loss.

A second lease on life didn't change most of his prediction except his age at the time of death.

Jason was born in hell, had been raised in hellfire and died, incinerated by its fire. This second life was shaping up to be more of the same. Thankfully, he would make it a gigantic _fucking_ bonfire instead of shitty tepid embers.

That reminded him, he could use some fire right about now. Rubbing his gloved hands together, he used his helmet's focused night binoculars setting to search for a viable dwelling.

Dunes on this side. Dunes here... Well, that's damn fantastic. _Wait. There's a white-clad figure walking over a dune, like a damn ghost._

Sign Red Hood up for questioning a stranger in the fucking Sahara desert night. This action is right in his alley, people skills coming in hot with his girls.

Maybe that person had an idea which year, location, they were stuck in. They even might have warm clothing or water and food he could steal(other than granola bars, Jason can't handle one more of those gustative atrocities).

He started marching in the silhouette's direction, hoping to cut across their path. The wind fell, sand falling back into their stationary ranks under his feet instead of his face and hands.

The figure moved asymmetrically, one foot dragging behind the other and, the rhythm was wrong. Weaknesses such as wounds, illnesses, tiredness or fragility were good news to Jason; it'd be easier to exploit (not that he couldn't handle a fight).

He jogged over the dune, searching for another sign of life beside the stranger stumbling and himself.

By the time the stranger stood some feet away, an odd lurching feeling had grown in the time traveller's stomach. _He knew this figure._

On a night like any in the Narrows, cold, dangerous and obscure, he had met this man. At sixteen, he was ready to lay down his life for this man-he'd done so every night. At some point after- _years for others, months for himself_ \- he came back to Gotham to kill him. Tonight- _or was it years ago?_ \- he had kissed this man- or another version of him.

"Bruce," Jason called out, his voice raw as he sprinted without care.

The figure that had ignored him so long turned in his direction. The wind bellowed upon his clothes; his eyes shone darkly from under his hood; his lips parted then crashed hard together like a ship on reefs, barely holding together.

"Bruce." Even to his ears, the name sounded lame, _useless_ , in his voice.

He stopped a few feet away, assessing the other man's condition.

The ghost hunting the dune straightened his posture and drew his clothing closer to him with his right hand.

"Red."

It took a moment before he remembered that meant him. "That's me."

Bruce coughed once, then in small fits, one hand before his mouth.

"Are you okay?" Before he knew it, he was already by the man's side.

The man's eyes seemed somewhere between five and thirty years older than earlier that evening, but the lack of crow's eyes proved this man wasn't that much older.

"Are you Red?" he said between his fits.

 _Of course!_ As he opened his mouth to call the other stupid, his gloved hand touched his helmet's hard surface.

He removed the helmet.

The man's odour, that, an hour ago had smelt so sublime, hit him like cheap alcohol with a vinegary aftertaste. Jason cringed his nose.

"Hey, it's me, alright, _see_? What happened to-"

Having delivered and received many punches in his life (and afterlife), Jason Todd was an expert on the matter. More than that, he had accumulated, over the years, fond admiration for a well-delivered punch.

Velocity, strength, technique, artistic expression; they were all relevant factors on which one could assess a punch.

And, really, in the split moment before getting hit, Jason respected every aspect of the passion-powered-high-velocity-League-of-Assassins-mastery punch.

Then, he blacked out, stray reflections lingering on the stunning punch, definitively one of his top-five picks.

Life was funny that way; it kept punching you in the face when you least expected it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hierarchy of Jason Todd's esthetic appeal:
> 
> 1) guns  
> 2) punches  
> 3) nice harcover books with (real, you know the textured ones) pages  
> 4) smoking hot cheese burgers with extra pickles and ketchup  
> 5) leather jackets  
> 15) combat boots  
> 103) helmets  
> 1067) hard wood (and glossy) coffins  
> 1090) other humans


	2. Desperate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason asks _the _existential question that has baffled humankind since the beginning of civilization.__
> 
> __
> 
> ___Is he a pillow or a man?_ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Consensual sex with one person non-consensually tied. Non-consent biting. Oh, and mild langage.

When he woke up with a pounding headache, Jason quickly noticed the heavy weight on his chest and the tightness around his ankles and wrists. Someone had removed all his guns and hidden weapons. And the heavy weight was snoring peacefully through all the mental health damages he had inflicted on his prisoner.

Removing sentimental belongings and imposing the jailer's presence on the prisoners should be against the Hague Convention. Once Jason would be back in his timeline, he would petition for that change. Nobody had to know his precious belongings were weapons.

Where were they, anyway?

The slowly rising sun illuminated a horizon filled with dunes. Great, more of them. Still no trace of his weapons and, the jacket and helmet he realized with a start. Count on any timeline's Bruce to be an asshole about the weirdest things.

Such as using his prisoner's chest as a _fucking_ pillow.

Getting punched in the face was an entirely reasonable ordeal. Most people got deservingly or undeservingly hit. It was almost like a rite of passage or something. Getting used as a pillow, on the other hand, was dehumanizing.

From now on, Jason would have the question stuck in his head: was he a _fucking_ pillow or a man?

It didn't take Jason long to conclude that if he were a pillow, he would be the most _motherfucking dumpster fire pillow_ in existence.

With that calming resolution in mind, he started to wiggle his hands. Well, his captor overdid it with Red Hood's special sticky duck-tape; he was sure all of his wrists' and ankles' hair would pull out with the tape's eventual removal.

Bringing his wrists to his face, he bit into the foul-tasting material. _Next time_ , he resolved, _he'd pick a better-tasting duck-tape_.

He was at it for a full minute (with little luck- next time, he's not investing in sturdier duck-tape)before he felt the gaze aimed at him.

Blues eyes looked at him from his chest while the man they belonged to did not move.

"What are you _looking_ at, _fucker_?"

"I thought duck-tape was toxic." The man's voice still sounded raw, sleepy.

Of all the things he had ingested and breathed in, duck-tape was the least of Jason's problems.

He continued to gnarl at the duck-tape.

His jailer was strangely talkative. He lifted on his forearms, elbows digging into Jason's ribs. "Is there asbestos in it?"

"Why the _fuck_ would there be asbestos in duck-tape!?!"

His captor's eyes gleamed before they dimmed. "For the same reason that there's lead in kids' toys. Humanity's tendency for self-destructiveness is hardly novel."

"Well, you certainly set your path to your permanent removal when you messed up with me, _asshole_!"

Unfortunately for him, swearing grandiose revenge while being physically incapacitated made him look like a B-movie villain. At least, that's what his captor's stare seemed to imply.

The elbows dug deeper into his chest as the man tilted his head, inviting retaliation. The captive swung his tied hands and got caught in an iron grip.

_Motherfucker!_

The captor, who hadn't coughed once since his surprise punch, glanced at the sun, eyes lidding as he took a deep breath. At that moment, he looked ancient and used, like an oak tree carved in while still alive, beautiful to others yet, worn by its shaping.

"I'll give you a choice," he said, "We can part now like this, or we can have sex before parting."

"You want me to prostitute myself for my freedom? _Fuck_ , you're more _messed_ _up_ than I am." And what a realization that was.

Bruce blinked out of his faraway gaze and turned his hooded face in his direction. "Either way, I'm not untying you."

Somehow, that was _almost_ even worse.

He chuckled crazily. "So, _fuck_ , let me get this straight; either you let me tied like a hot-dog in the middle of nowhere in the blazing sun with no water **_or_** ; we fuck and, you leave me tied up like a _frigging_ hot-dog in the middle of nowhere in the _blazing_ sun with _no_ water."

"You understand basic English," the other deadpanned.

"Why the _fuck_ , **_bastard_** , would I fuck the person who punched me out and tied me up and will me leave me to die in the middle of the _fucking_ desert?!?"

His captor pushed himself to his feet and brushed the sand off his white tunic and headwear -that colour felt off, no matter how long Jason stared at it.

The heat gathered on his chest receded, dispersing in the dry air. It wouldn't take long for the sun to burn the captive instead of keeping him warm. Still, Jason could not help but mourn the loss of the body covering his.

The captor glanced once more at the sun and lifted one foot. In an instant, he'd be gone, without a goodbye, because he never said them; he only knew how to disappear in the night. That familiar fear- _the fear that this time, this man would not return_ -, more than any lustful desire; pushed the tied man to say: "Wait!"

The white-clothed man stopped.

Somehow, Red Hood had the growing feeling he should not let this man leave, even if he was an asshole.

"I'm already a hot-dog destined to dehydrate to death, might as well get some fucking out of it."

"Are you sure?" There was a slight hesitation in his tone, something Jason had rarely heard from him.

"Do you want me to _fucking_ beg?"

When he saw the considering look passing on the other man's face, his face scrunched in distaste.

The younger man sat down, hands going to his future mentoree's zipper. In a few seconds, Jason's proud boy was out, half-hard to his owner's dwindling shame- lust was already taking more and more his rational (he mentally lifted his middle fingers to all who implied there was no such thing) oriented mind.

His future enemy, his guardian, caressed- _touched!_ \- him, spreading shivers down his spine.

He could feel the eyes burning him more ardently than the desert sun rising behind him. The rest of his face hid in the shadow.

Another caress equalled another shiver.

"You're so sensitive. I bet you burn quickly."

The tied man's embarrassment lost ground to his lust. The growling voice, the shadows, the tilting head; everything felt too much, too real.

"Let's see how fast you burn." The white-clothed man seized Jason. A moan escaped his mouth.

And burn, he did. A few strikes of the kindling and he was sputtering nonsense.

Bruce lifted the bottom of his long robe and placed himself above him, towering, bigger-than-life, almost sinister. He still smelt like vinegar and cheap alcohol, but there was a small hint of the lemon's freshness, making it somewhat tolerable.

And Jason _**wanted**_ more. More of him, more of this madness to consume him.

 _Fuck_ consequences and sanity. Jason had never cared much for them anyway. 

"Get on, you _fucking_ tease!" He thrust his pelvis forward to illustrate his point.

One hand laid flat on his chest, caging him in the sand, while the man lowered himself. "Don't talk."

Sand tickled Jason's neck, sliding inside his shirt, grinding against his tender skin. Yet, it didn't compare to the effect of one big hand covering over his red bat design; it owned him in a way he had never let himself get trap; it branded him like the Batfamily never did.

At that moment, tied up, aroused, he wanted for his mentor to take possession of him, not in his half-assed-too-charitable-to-let-a-kid-starve, but because he wanted to. _**It must not be** **kindness**_ , he prayed (like he had not prayed in years).

As if the other man had read his mind, he granted him his wish. There was nothing kind about the way he slammed down on Jason, his balls almost tinging from the impact.

'When did he get himself ready?' he barely had the chance to wonder before the wet tightness got to him. Last evening- _years ago_ -, he had tasted this, yet nothing felt the same.

The pressure on his chest increased as the tightness left almost all of his cock alone. Whining, _fuck_ , was Bruce abandoning him again? Then, it felt good anew.

They repeated the cycle of rapture and desperateness over and over until the sky turned blue.

"Do you want to knot inside of me?" The man barely panted, but sweat dripped from his forehead, eyes strangely vacant, while his hand dug hard into Jason's chest, almost as if meaning to cleave his heart out.

"Yes!" Had he any trace of shame left, his response's eagerness would have mortified him. _Fuck_ , letting someone do all the work and reaping all the benefits was worth getting tied up like a hot-dog.

A clench around his cock jolted his pelvis forward, ejaculating. The man above crouched over him, trapping his tied arms against his body, mouth finding his neck, much to Jason's endorsement.

Then, everything happened at once; he felt teeth biting into his sensible neck; his knot swelled; he must have yelled or moaned something, his gunpowder and spaghetti smell mixing oddly with vinegar, alcohol and lemon.

Pain and a new sense of connectedness overwhelmed him. He was tied, connected forever to this person- no matter how much things would change- they were bound, fastened together, a wonderful celebration of human harmony. 

_Yet._

It hurt.

That man had forced that connection, that completed mating bound on them without his approval. _Motherfucker. He'll kill the fucking bastard with a rusty razor blade and, then he'd..._

Fury and euphoria rarely mixed together, except if your name is Jason Todd. 

How long were his emotions stuck on two opposite trains ravaging his mind? He would have a hard time guessing.

At one point, a voice, so soft, so calm, whispered in his ear. "I hope you die the most horrific death possible, courtesy of your referral."

Later, when he snapped back to the present, Jason found himself tied, soiled, warm-faced and alone on dunes in the fucking desert.

Cursing, he worked clumsily removing his special duck-tape with his teeth. He swore millions of absurd revenge plans, each more ridiculous than the last.

Milling in a shirt, pants and boots, Jason searched for his _girls_ and his _shit_. Swearing even more loudly, he kicked the sand. The quasi-inexistent impact infuriated him to kick it harder.

Finally, covered in sand and cum, he had to sit and take stock of his options.

 _One_ , he could try to find the bastard, Bruce.

 _Two_ , he could send the fucking grandfather clock up his ass.

 _Three_ , he could kick and fire them to kingdom come.

He then, of course, saw the big shadow appearing at his feet. Looking up, he cursed, " _Motherfuck_ -"

There was a green glow and no human was left sitting on the dunes.

A breeze swept the dunes, dusting the innocent scenery from the soiling presence of humans. Minutes barely passed before half a dozen men and one woman walked to the dune.

"What happened here?" The woman said, voice as proud as it was cutting.

Only silence greeted her question. Even the betas could smell the recent coupling of an Omega and an Alpha.

Her eyes glared at them, but she lost no time talking. Finding her Beloved before her father's return was crucial for his continued existence.

She pushed back the betrayal and anger she felt, focusing on her task. Her fingers placed her hair behind her ear.

He could run a long time, but nobody could escape the Al Ghuls.

For the first time, she was unsure whether it was a curse or a blessing.


	3. Headache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's side of the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Implied rape. Implied non-con use of drugs. Nothing is described but Bruce's physical and mental state afterward.

Bruce had a headache.

That ailment's first appearance coincided with Bruce's adoption of Dick. At first, his head started pounding when Dick would do acrobatic tricks on the chandeliers or randomly start singing at a gala. Then, there all the dangerous things he got around to doing during his Robin nights.

At that point, it was still manageable without much medication.

Then came Jason.

A miniature image of Red with the same cocky Narrows accent appeared into his life in the same alley Bruce had once met the mysterious vigilante; one had pushed him against the wall, the other had started removing his car's wheels. The same mischievousness, the same wariness, yet the scent and the eye colour were all wrong. There, in that little bumbling adolescent, he had recognized his first possible lead about the enigmatic red bat wearing vigilante since his two meetings with him.

He had bought the kid a burger in the nearest family restaurant for some rudimentary questioning. As the boy stared at the food with narrowed eyes for minutes before ingesting it, he answered some questions about his relatives. Barely present parents, one dealing and violent, the other taking and mentally absent. There was no one whose age corresponded with Red's timeline.

That night, he had had no intention of bringing the child to his home; if his run with Dick had taught him anything, it was how ill-suited he was to be anyone's parent. Moreover, he didn't want to bring another child into his life, not after the last fiasco.

At the end of the night, he drove him to the children's wellness facility. The boy's eyes had narrowed when he had seen the building, gripping the car's door, jaw set. Then, he glared at the odd man who had fed him after he had attempted to steal the man's wheels. There was nothing apologetic in the eyes, only fury, and worse, **_fear_** of being abandoned.

Batman was weak.

 _For one night_ , he rationalized as he drove to Wayne Manor, _I'll let him sleep in a real bed_. Only Jason continued to steal his way into his heart (and to steal various things) until Bruce could no longer hold his 'temporary stay' illusion.

If Dick had been the charmer, the popular kid, Jason had been the problem child, the one who always needed attention but didn't know how to ask for it with words.

Dick spun puns at the wrong moments; Jason hit the people they caught when they were down.

And even later, when Bruce adopted Cass, Tim and Damian, Jason was the one who made the most questionable choices in life. Everyone in the Batfamily had their fair share of dubious decisions, but Jason was undoubtedly the reigning king of them; in fact, he seldom took the best course of action.

Dick trusted too freely and improvised a little too much; Cass lacked common sense and deception; Barbara and Tim were sometimes too pragmatic; Tim and Damian were, at times, overconfident or, they lacked empathy.

And Jason cared very little about the consequences of his actions. He was undoubtedly impulsive.

Schools had expelled, at the most, once each: Tim, Step, Dick, Damian, Cass and Barbara. They had discharged Jason five times, almost as many times as Bruce himself.

So, yes, Jason's appearance had coincided with Bruce's accrued migraine problem.

Even in his absence, he could not get rid of the ailment and its close association with anything Jason-related.

"Are you sure that the clock is time-travelling based on desires?" Nightwing asked through the comms.

"I see no why reason why Clock King would lie about it, especially with how angry he was."

"But what're his desires? Killing Hitler?" Steph piped in.

"No," Red Robin said, "He understands that the socio-economic conditions that paved the road to the Second World War originated from the blame-attribution behaviour of the Great War. Instead of killing Hitler, he would attack everyone during the Great War and become humanity's biggest threat. That way, the world would not have asked the Germans to pay the costs of the entire First World War, which, in turn, would cause their failed printing money scheme and over a decade of abject poverty..."

"It's funny, you talk, but all I hear is blah blah," Steph said.

"That's a nice theory, but usually Jason is more personally invested in his projects," Dick said. He paused. "Batman, are you still alive?"

"Yes."

"Are you missing any limbs?"

"No."

"Is Joker still alive?"

"Yes."

"Is he missing any limbs?"

"No."

"Well, I'm out of ideas."

"Maybe, he went to collect first book editions," Barbara said.

"He _does_ like his collection."

"That's one way to get rich," Steph said. "You don't even have to remember the lottery ticket numbers and the exact date they'll win."

"He could even have stolen some books from the Library of Alexandria, seeing how they were lost forever from the annals of history, it wouldn't affect the timeline," Tim said.

"Nah, he wouldn't do that. He would get Jane Austen's signature in a first edition copy of Pride and Prejudice," Steph answered.

The pounding inside Batman's head intensified as the theories flew wilder and wilder. At least, if the others were truthful, they had not met this timeline's Jason in their past. If they had not slept with him, he could not imagine why they wouldn't disclose the information to contribute to his locating. Only he was keeping information from them.

Steph and Tim were bickering again, not that he cared for the precise reasons, as they rarely made sense. He only hoped nobody would question his absence.

"By the way," Dick said, "where are you, B?"

He grunted.

"I mean, that's nice and all, but not everyone speaks Cro-magnon," Steph said.

"He's telling us it's none of our business."

"You understand his grunts?'

"It's simple," he replied, "you study the words he says, then, you extrapolate which of them he would use in that circumstances. Voila, you now understand the subtle art of grunting!"

"But, he barely talks! Well, except for the nagging."

"That simplifies the matter of extrapolating."

"Or, you can imagine that every grunt is a compliment he doesn't dare to say out loud," Steph said.

"It would do wonders for anyone's self-esteem..."

He zoned them out, thinking back to the aftermath of his first meeting with Red.

Back then, broken mating bonds were even more of a taboo. The ones that lost their loved ones to grief were told the withdrawals were part of the mourning process. For the others, the ones separated in life, broken mating bonds were a sign of shame, of disgrace.

He had only trusted Leslie, his father's former colleague and best friend, with his medical information. After examining him a few times amid his mating bond withdrawal, she had confirmed that his mating bond was abnormal, that a few months should usually be enough to erase an Alpha's scent and influence. However, restrained by Bruce's insistence not to disclose his condition to anyone, Leslie could only repeat the same tests and consult inadequate resources on the subject.

When he had hit the five months mark, he had decided to become stronger, to follow Red's suggestion about the League of Assassins. Running away without even leaving a word for Alfred, he had found traces of the League's influence and whereabouts. He had tracked his way into the main headquarter in a desert in the Middle East.

He had been discovered by League warriors near their headquarter.

At first, they used force to interrogate him. When the warriors heard him repeat that he wanted to be initiated to the League's training, they rebuked him for his insanity, for not accepting his place in life. An Omega's place was not among Warriors. He should not appear, face uncovered, in front of anyone but his pack.

Yet, the stranger persisted, insisted he would exceed their expectations. They slapped him, waterboard him, but he echoed the same words until Ra's heard of the commotion.

A black beard and mustache with hints of grey covered the angularly shaped dark face of the Demon's Head, his eyes ancient and vigorous, crinkles at his eyes and mouth's end. His embroidered clothing, green and gold, flowing, draped over his frame created the illusion of a bigger-than-life hero or villain instead of a slighter taller than the average man. A compact jasmine smell filled the room.

The warriors untied Bruce and made him kneeled at their leader's feet. _Don't look_ , they told him.

To their utter bafflement, he immediately lifted his head and met the green snake eyes towering above him. The guard on his left kicked him hard in the stomach.

The stranger, blood at the corner of his mouth, lifted his head again, fixing the leader's eyes. "Please accept me as your disciple."

This time he was punched, then, his head was pushed to the floor, banging hard enough to confuse him.

"Learn your place!"

There was a silence.

"Let him make his case."

The American man raised his head. "Let me become your disciple. I may not know much about your way of life or your combat training, but let me become your disciple and I'll become the best of your trainees within a few months."

A light appeared in the eyes, almost giving them a yellowish glow. "The League has strict rules. Your request goes against the rules."

"You're the leader," he said, head craned, "you make the rules. Make the exception and you will not regret it."

"It is not our way."

Then, Bruce felt the gaze travelled upon his brutalized frame, assessing his worth. "You are not from here. I can make allowances."

Before the young adult could rejoice, the leader continued. "I dislike when people or things fall short of my expectations and I have high expectations for you."

Ra's Al Ghul, the Demon's Head, nodded to a warrior beside him and left.

They untied him and shoved him into a small room.

For months, over a year, he trained from sunrise till late after the sun had disappeared. The food and water gave him diarrhea for weeks, almost killing him at the beginning. He ran, cleaned, climbed, evaded, attacked, memorized, wrestled and, more importantly, he listened and observed. Bruises covered his body; when they started disappearing, he would find stronger opponents to supplant his last ones. Weapons, poisons, techniques, meditation, languages; all the things he thought he had learned, he discovered again, refined his senses, his reflexes, his presence.

The only allowance they granted him was the use of his suppressants.

And he surpassed the ones who defeated him until there were only elite warriors whom he could not defeat.

At that time, coincidently, Ra's daughter, Talia returned from her medical studies. Bruce issued her challenges upon challenges. Never one to back down, she defeated him again and again, but her victories were narrower by the fight, and she started receiving similar injuries to him. After the fights, she no longer let him bleed in peace; instead, they discussed her medical studies or poetry.

One month after her arrival, Ra's summoned him to the official business room.

On that day, the stranger put one knee on the ground and lowered his head to listen to his Master's order.

"Disciple, you have fought your way through the ranks of my organization. Your swift ascension has given me much joy."

Pride swelled in the stranger's chest, for he had finally become strong enough to challenge Red.

"I will thus grant you a great privilege. Henceforth, you shall father the next Al Ghul heirs."

_What?_

He lowered further his head in apology. "Master, I must decline your great privilege. Gotham beckons my presence."

"I understand," his master said. He was dismissed without fanfare.

That evening, he did not pay particular attention to the subtle difference in his drink's taste nor his candle's scent.

The next time he was conscious, his limbs barely responded to him, his mind was a blur, he smelled sickly and he had injuries all over his body, especially at his mating bond gland and below.

Yet, despite everything, he was still suffering from the residue of his mating bond withdrawal symptoms.

Talia came and went. So did Ra's. What they said and did were hazy.

Bruce was not stupid enough to hope to be released or rescued. As his body weakened, his mind, as hazy as it were, focused on an escape plan.

One night, when Ra's hadn't appeared for a while (hours? days? weeks? he couldn't differentiate them anymore), Bruce had stolen clothing and slipped away, stomach-churning, limping, weak. He had vomited whatever was in his system a few times until only bile rose out of his bruised throat.

He placed one foot in front of the other, not even checking for signs of pursuit.

When he heard someone call out his name, the name they never called in the League, he thought he was hallucinating again. Then, he saw Red sprinting in his direction.

At that moment, he knew he was caught, that they'd never let him go until he was dead. His mind knew it was over, but his heart couldn't stand it.

Maybe Red wasn't aware he had escaped Red's referred organization. Maybe, Bruce could trick him and steal his belongings. Then, he could always take his own life if they caught up to him. No way was he ever returning alive to the League.

Red was dumb enough to fall for his trick; and, more surprisingly, Bruce was strong enough to punch him to unconsciousness.

As the Batfamily continued to bicker in the background, Batman closed his eyes. There were many things he regretted in life, but rarely did he regret something more than what he had done that day.

He had known from the first meeting that Red was not a bodyguard hired by Alfred. Nevertheless, his familiarity with Alfred and Bruce was not feigned.

Even then, in the middle of a desert, he found discrepancies with Red's story. They had met two years prior; so, why was there a tissue still smelling like them both in the man's pocket?

He removed the man's helmet and jacket and threw them over the dune. As for the weapons and the tools, he pocketed them for himself. With trembling fingers, he duck-taped the man securely. Now, he couldn't hurt Bruce, couldn't touch him.

His arms and legs were shaking. His fingers barely moved. Was the culprit the drug, the fear or the cold? He couldn't tell.

He needed a fire. No wood. No flammable material but clothing. No fire. They'd come faster. Rather die.

Warm. Needed it. Red. Hot. Clothing.

He fell more than sat to the ground and placed his head to the man's chest. Not cold. Not alone. The scent was nice.

He must have fallen asleep.

He woke up to the scene of Red gnawing at his duck-tape bond. Watching the surreal display, Bruce felt this must be another delusion.

Then, they talked. He hadn't consciously spoken to anyone in a long time; he had missed this feeling of being human.

He should have left the troublesome intruder alone and gone on his way.

His thought could only return again and again on the fact that Red, his first crush, his first time, had sent him directly into the Al Ghul's hands. Red's combat form reminded Bruce of the League of Assassins' combat form. He had studied with them.

Surely, the Demon Head's plans had been, from the start, to use him or kill him. When the Omega proved worthy of the Demon Head's attention, they used him to supplant their bloodline.

And Red must have known what kind of fate Bruce would await him in the League.

With hindsight, Batman knew it wasn't true; that Red Hood did not even know he had sent him a referral when he had told him that he was weak and that he hadn't even studied with the League of Assassins. He knew present time Bruce's past, but not of the details of his stay at the League of Assassins.

Red Hood did not approve of the League of Assassins' behaviour on that front.

Back then, Bruce thought it was a conspiracy. A shadow fell on his heart; a resolve bloomed in his mind. He could not be captured alive and Red would pay.

He offered sex to his captive with no incentives to accept but pleasure. Red did not know that Bruce belonged to the Al Ghul pack. The ancient rules, Ra's, had implanted, the ones ignored by most modern societies, spoke of the punishment of taking an Omega from a pack without permission.

Both offenders were stoned to death.

 _I wouldn't be taken back alive_ , he thought as he pleasured the Alpha. Neither of them would, not with each other's scent marked so clearly on them.

In a flash, he remembered the mating bond and his months of withdrawal. Impulsively, he bit the man who had given and taken so much from him. He felt the groan moving in the neck under his fang, felt himself come.

He waited until the knot disappeared to push himself upright. He looked at the man, not much older than himself, and, sweaty and lethargic, he appeared as vulnerable as the one in Gotham had seemed in control. He ignored the tingle in his chest as he started walking.

It could almost be called guilt and something else.

Bruce would not know the man's fate until well after Jason Todd's death.

Now, as Batman was waiting in one of Red Hood's safehouses (one he didn't know Batman knew about), he expected to be right, that Jason would appear near him, as he did before when he time-travelled to ridicule him, to mock him.

He hoped Jason if he was still covered in duck-tape, cum, sand and his scent would not appear in front of anyone else.

More importantly, he hoped that Talia had told him the truth; that she had not killed Red in the desert. He could not bear to think he got Jason killed again.

The others were patrolling and working. He could hear them laugh and joke on his comms to cover their unease. Batman sat in a cheap plastic chair in Jason's base, not working, only waiting.

Then, he heard a thud and several small noises. Curses spew out of the thud's direction. Something lightened in Batman's heart; Jason was alive. He rose and walked toward the sounds.

There, in all of Jason's cum and sand-covered glory, with no jacket, weapons nor helmet, he cussed like a sailor as he tried to get rid of the items he had fallen upon.

The vigilante's head whirled in his direction, a light of recognition appeared in his eyes as he glared at his former mentor.

"Where _the_ **fuck** did you hide my guns, you _motherfucker_!?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really admire Jason's priorities.


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tying the Al Ghul loose ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Implied rape and non-consensual drug use.

Talia's left hand's calloused fingers tapped the hard stainless station counter. She ran the same tests she did every day for the past month. This time, however, there was a deep frown marring her angular delicate features.

Her subordinate knocked on the headquarters' medical chamber's door.

"Enter."

He bowed low. "It's done."

Her lips pinched together and her eyelids fluttered closed. "Even the contaminated site?"

"Yes. However, some objects found near it could not be destroyed by our usual means."

She turned her face away from her computer analysis to look in his direction. "What was it?"

Rashgar produced a hot red helmet and a reinforced leather jacket. She took the jacket and moved it around, then, she gazed at the helmet's blank eyes. "What technology is this?"

"I do not know. It is more advanced than any human technology I've ever seen."

Talia caressed the material again, her frown melting into a concentrated look. "Put it with the knife, the pistols, the grappling hook, the pocket explosives and Tazer we found on my Beloved."

"I will. Any other instructions?"

She pursed her lips and tucked some hair behind her ear.

She gestured him away and he left. Then, she turned to look at the man lying on the white patient table. Even at a first glance, she could see the weight difference from a month ago. She even had quantitative graphs of his body's decline; he had shed 25.6 pounds; his BMI had fallen below 17; his pulse had steadily dropped; his bloodstream was increasingly contaminated with foreign drugs, not all of which were flushed; the stitches in his anus didn't have time to heal; the bruises adorning his body were darker shades.

As she watched him breathe, she could not stop herself from noticing how hard even that basic function had become. His skin that had flushed with exertion earlier was now remarkably pale, moribund.

Back then, when they had caught him, his muscles, the ones usually so loyal, had failed him during his fight. She administrated more drugs to keep him sedated.

"Beloved," Talia said as she caressed Bruce's chest.

Some birds soar so proudly that people want to keep them. Some can live there. Some wither until they are but a shadow of the noble bird they once were. Her Beloved was not one to live in servitude.

Bruce glared at her, full of hatred, unable to comprehend her generosity in his favour.

After all, birds, no matter how proud, cannot escape the Al Ghuls. The Demon's Head could not show that amount of weakness. Soldiers can be released from service; they cannot desert.

Talia pressed a hand to Bruce's heart. "I'll release you from your bonds if you give me a child."

That promise was the furthest she could compromise. Father would not be pleased with the outcome as it were; he'd already grown fond of the idea of having multiple heir candidates from this person, of having them fight it out among themselves.

"I'd rather die than let my child, any child for that matter, be raised here," Bruce swore, utterly sincere, heart steadily beating under Talia's fingers.

_He'll die if he keeps that up._

"Beloved." Her lips moved forward to capture his. His head turned away.

She pushed down her anger; until today, she had always obeyed her father's rules. Until now, she had not wanted to disobey them, yet, for this foolish proud man, she had. She would cover his desertion and adultery tracks.

She rose, fighting her innate Alpha need to put her scent all over the disgusting Alpha's smell on her Beloved. Thankfully, she had had a long time to practice that repression.

With one last glance at her frail-looking Beloved, a bird with broken wings, she walked out of his hearing range. "Rashgar," she called her second in command, "have your volunteer transport him closer and make sure none of them make it back to the compound."

And, here she was, looking at her Beloved and searching for a solution that could keep him safe and placate her father. Neither had quite learned how to be flexible. Her eyelids fluttered closed before she focused on what she could accomplish.

Grabbing her pencil, she readied herself to note all her Beloved's information. She froze, hand in the air. Swallowing, she glanced at him, then, at the results again.

A smile etched on her face, a solution to her problems.

_He was already pregnant._

For some time before today, she had wondered if his unsteady broken mating bond had impeded his capacity of giving birth. He had already gone through forced heats with fertile Alphas without the desired results. Her father had even suggested the use of the Lazarus Pits to cleanse his past issues.

This pregnancy result coincided with her Beloved's coupling with the vanished Alpha. It was possibly his.

But, in her mind, she had already weighed the risks of her father finding out about the possible progenitor. The Demon Head followed his strain of traditions, not quite ready to believe in modernity and its technology. As long as he had no reason to suspect it, he would not seek confirmation.

He had already agreed that the child would be hers to raise. Talia was convinced she could shape her Beloved's child into the Demon Head's Heir.

The man on the table twitched. Her smile melted into genuine tenderness as she walked closer. Caressing his sweaty stray locks, she promised: "You can return to your precious Gotham now. You'll get to open your wings and fly as you were fated to do."

She had always wanted and loved him most when he was performing, succeeding.

"I'll look at your exploits from afar, Beloved, and I'll train our kid as the League's Heir, something you're too soft to do. One day, you'll thank me for my generosity."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, you're not getting the Bruce and Jason conversation this time. I envisioned this series with one fic about the first past meeting, then one fic about the second past meeting; then the rest. I thought it would simplify the matter if each fic were set in one timeline instead of one big fic with lots of flashbacks and time-travel. 
> 
> Instead of dealing with the Bruce and Jason's argument, I preferred to get one last revelation out of way: yes, Damian is Jason's biological child and Jason is only 10 years older than him... And Talia and Bruce are 100% aware of that.


End file.
